


Flowers in the Thorns

by cellard00rs



Series: CSAC series [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Flowers, Growing Up, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are seeds within Preston just waiting to grow. An origin story from the 'Coffee Stains and Cigarettes' verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers in the Thorns

 

“Let…me….see,” Anneliese Van Pelt Northwest gasps. Everything is hazy and floating by her, dreamlike and unreal. She was in such terrible pain earlier, but it’s gone now. She feels nothing but numb. Numb and airy and she can’t seem to work up any withal to care. Her life is balanced on precarious tether hooks but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does, just so long as she can see him at least once.

Someone answers her request and she sees a bright, rosy face floating near her own. The infant is so small, so precious, and so very, very new. His eyes are closed but his mouth is working, little balled fists shaking and she worries because she’s sure he’s supposed to be crying, screaming, drawing in loud lungful’s of air.

But then his eyes open, tiny slits and the color…so like her own. Her lips tremble and she wants to move her limbs, wants to brush her fingers along his face. But she can’t. She doesn’t have the strength to. She has no energy left, she has nothing. Nothing but the will to see, to keep her eyes focused just long enough to look at her greatest accomplishment, “Pres…ton,”

The newborn’s eyes seem to lock with her own and she feels herself floating higher, feels everything drain out of her as she smiles. Preston Northwest, her son, the little seed that will blossom into the most beautiful of flowers. If only she could be around to see it.

Anneliese Van Pelt Northwest passes away approximately fifteen minutes later. There’s nothing the hordes of doctors and nurses present can do to prevent this. Preston Northwest cries and screams into the night.

 

+

 

“Come, little lordling! Time for breakfast!” Nanny Quinn murmurs as she helps Preston rise from his feather bed. He looks at her with big, doleful grey eyes, clutching his stuffed toy rabbit close and she gives him a brilliant grin, “Did you have nice dreams?”

He nods, but looks uneasy as he puts the toy aside and she helps him change from his crisp nightshirt into a smart suit. She finds it strange to dress a toddler in such formal attire, but Josiah Northwest refuses to see his son in such ‘rags’ as a simple shirt and pants. It always has to be something expensive, as if he’s about to go to a little children’s board meeting or a special event like a wedding.

He never resists the clothing either, but wears it as if he dutifully must. Quinn doesn’t know much about the nannies that came before her, knows nothing of how well he was whipped into shape by them and his father. Truth be told, she only received the position two weeks ago, before this she worked in the Northwest gardens but once Nanny Fantaine left, she was chosen.

Josiah Northwest had lined up his immensely large household staff and walked up and down their uniformed rows, inspecting each and every single face. When he’d come to Quinn, he’d walked around her in circles, like a shark sensing blood in the water. Finally he’d given a sharp nod, his eyes directed behind her and the next thing she knew, the woman who had been her director in the green house told her she had ‘made it’. She was to be Preston’s new nanny.

Quinn had had little experience with children past some babysitting jobs she’d done in her teens and that was many, many years ago. And those children were leagues different than Preston. For one thing, they _spoke_. Preston is almost eerily quiet. For another, those children _smiled_. Quinn can’t recall seeing Preston smile – not even once. And she’s done her best to make him smile – set up make believe plays with his toys, read him funny stories – she even tickled him once, but he merely looked confused, as if unsure how to respond.

Since then, she’s merely treated him as if he’s no different than an invalid, because that’s almost what he seems to be. Not a child, so much as a doll. A doll with such expressive eyes. Eyes that look at her with wonder as she leads him by the hand down to the dining room. The first time she’d taken his hand he’d been stunned, as if no one had ever done such a thing – perhaps they hadn’t. In fact, any physical interaction is met with surprise, something Quinn doesn’t understand. Surely someone has held him? Kissed him? Hugged him?

True, she’s never really seen him around Josiah much, but one of the other nannies must have given him some affection, right? It wasn’t like such actions were frowned on…were they? She doesn’t really know for sure. She’s only held the position for a few months and as long as she makes sure that Preston is on time to see his father at each meal, she’s heard no feedback as to how she’s doing. If she was to guess, she’s doing adequately well – after all, she hasn’t been let go, so that must mean something.

Quinn is helping him down the laborious stairs and, as always, she contemplates just picking him up and carrying him. It would be easier for both of them, seeing as Preston has such little legs, but with the way he reacts to merely having his hand held, she’s worried this action would be unwelcome. The last thing she needs is for him to scream or cry. She knows that won’t be received well. Mr. Northwest likes a nice, orderly and above all, _quiet_ household.

To be honest, Quinn’s pretty sure she’s actually _heard_ a pin drop in this mansion, it’s so silent. As they descend the ornate marble staircase Quinn looks up at the portrait they pass every single day and she…stops. She shouldn’t stop. They’re working within an exact schedule and they can’t afford to be late. But her eyes linger over the painting of Mrs. Northwest, as they do every day and she can’t help herself.

She stops in front of the picture and points up to it, “Preston, do you know who that is?”

Preston looks at the picture, then at her, then at the picture again before he shakes his head. Quinn leans down and whispers to him, “That’s your mother.”

Preston looks at the picture and she actually sees a reaction for once. His eyes grow a little wider and his mouth quivers, as if to smile and she’s so encouraged by it that she can’t help but continue, “I met her once. It was very, very long ago, when I first got hired here. She was very sweet. She loved flowers.”

“Flowers?” Preston asks so softly as to almost be unheard, but Quinn hears and nods, “Mmhmm, her favorites were orchids. Do you know what an orchid is?”

He shakes his head and she gently runs a finger down the bridge of his nose, “Maybe I’ll show you later, hmm?”

His nodding is so rapid that she feels her heart skip a beat. She takes him the rest of the way to the dining room. Josiah sits at the head of an expansively long table. The table can seat about twenty on either side – possibly more. Preston’s chair is on the other end. Josiah has his newspaper up, covering his face. Quinn helps Preston to sit and Josiah’s voice rings out, “You’re late.”

Quinn swallows, the earlier skip in her heart turning into a cold, painful thump, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Two and a half minutes to be precise,” he says, tone chilly as he carefully turns a page.

Quinn’s not sure what to say and she swallows thickly. Josiah prompts her, “Well? I’m waiting.”

She licks her lips, “I’m sorry, sir, you’re-you’re waiting for?”

He puts down the paper and even with how far away he is, she feels as if he’s piercing her with his glare, “An explanation.”

“Oh, yes! My-my apologies! We…we stopped to look at the painting, sir.”

“What painting?”

“The-the one of the late Mrs. Northwest.”

His white blonde eyebrows draw together, “And this was your idea, I take it?”

Quinn feels sick, her palms sweating, “I…thought Preston might like to take a moment to…to look at her.”

Josiah merely hums and then switches his focus to Preston, “Is this true?”

Preston had already started poking at his eggs and has had yet to look up. The earlier traces of possible happiness have been swept away. He’s the doll again, but he’s nowhere near as obedient as usual. He doesn’t answer and Josiah lets out an aggrieved sigh as he reaches out for a small, silver bell that rests to one side. He shakes it with a simple flick of his wrist, sharp rings hitting the air and Preston grows rigid, eyes shooting upwards as he mumbles, “Yes?”

Another ring and Preston repeats himself, much more clearly this time, tagging a ‘sir’ on the end. He answers the same way a dog would respond when his owner asks him to speak. Apparently satisfied, Josiah puts the bell down and returns to his paper, but there’s a slight tick to his jaw.

After breakfast, Quinn takes Preston upstairs and shows him a book of flowers. It’s in alphabetical order, but they don’t reach ‘orchid’ before one of Josiah’s many footmen arrives and announces that Quinn has been let go. She’s ordered to collect her things and leave the estate at once. She looks sadly at Preston and finally gives into all the temptations she’s had for too long. She kisses his forehead and hugs him tight and tells him to be good. She tells him to keep looking through the book and wishes her ‘little lordling’ farewell. Preston never sees her again.

 

+

 

Preston can see his reflection in the glass of the window as he looks outside. He’s on the ground level of one of his father’s skyscrapers and he can see a local park across the street. Children his age are playing on the basketball court, sweating and laughing and having a good time. Preston’s never played basketball. Basketball is not an appropriate sport for a seven year old – or so he was told. He watches one boy jump up and smack the ball away from another’s hands.

The boy in question is…Preston doesn’t know how to put it into words. He’s good to look at. Preston likes looking at him. He has soft, coffee colored skin and bright eyes. His smile is wide and warm. He runs up to another kid and tackles him, ruffles his golden hair and that boy is also…intriguing. There are other kids out there too – other girls and boys, but none of them draw his eyes like these two.

He looks around to see if his father is anywhere in sight. Mr. Northwest only brought Preston along because he’s in the process of a very big merger. The manager of the company he’s trying to merge with has a child about Preston’s age. But at the last minute, the kid couldn’t make it – so Preston is regulated to waiting on the bottom level until his father’s meetings are complete.

It’s a very boring position to be in and Preston feels this itch deep inside him, this desire to go outside and see if he can play with the others. He looks around but sees no eyes directly on him. The receptionist at the front desk was ordered to watch him, but she’s distracted with her nail polish, so Preston decides to take a chance.

He sneaks out as covertly as he can. He approaches the basketball court with some trepidation and for a while he just stands on the sidelines, watching everyone play, but up close this time. The first kid he noticed suddenly takes notice of him and Preston blushes as he comes closer, “Hey! What’s up? What’s your name?”

“Oh! Um, Preston?”

“Preston?” he holds out his hand, “My name’s Jordan.”

Preston looks at Jordan’s hand as if he’s never seen such a gesture. But he has. His father always shakes hands with his business compatriots, so Preston sees no reason why he can’t recreate the action with this stranger. He shakes Jordon’s hand while Jordan signals over the boy with the golden hair, “This is my friend Tim! Hey, Tim – this is Preston!”

Tim presents his hand and Preston shakes it as well, his insides feeling jittery with excitement because he’s never received this sort of open attention before, much less from such cool looking boys. Tim eyes Preston up and down, grinning, “You comin’ from a dance or sumthin’?”

Preston looks down at his spit-shined black dress shoes and his black slacks. He’s wearing a long sleeved, buttoned up blue shirt and suit jacket and he merely shrugs, “No. I was at work with my father.”

“What is he? A banker?” Jordan asks and Preston shakes his head, “Uh – no. He runs an empire.”

“Like a king? Cool! My daddy’s a manager at the ice cream shop in the mall,” Tim says and Jordan chuckles, “Yeah, my dad’s a teacher at Trembley High. Looks like your dad’s got some money, huh, Preston?”

Again, Preston shrugs, “I guess.”

“Cool – want to play with us?” Tim asks, twirling the ball on one finger. Preston watches the action and rubs at one arm apprehensively, “I…don’t know how to play.”

“It’s not hard,” Jordan promises, “Gotta change your shoes out though – I think I got an extra pair of sneakers in my backpack – what size are you?”

Preston tells him and, luckily, Jordan does indeed have an extra set that will fit. Preston takes off his jacket and switches into the comfy sneakers. He gets introduced to several of the other children and is given a quick rundown of how to play. They run up and down the court, passing the ball here and there and Preston finds himself sweating and…smiling.

The smile is strange, because Preston’s never really had one like it. He’s smiled before, but the smile has always been subdued. It’s a smile that was taught to him by his thirteenth Nanny (and subsequent tutor) Mrs. Pilshaw. He was told to smile, but not too broadly - just enough to give a sense of ease. He learned even more of this at Tambor’s Academy, the school he’s been attending and will _be_ attending until he goes off to college.

Tambor’s has a very rigid schedule and several classes focus on the study of good business relations. One lesson is about the art of ‘the winning smile’. A smile that conveys both confidence and an amicable air, but also a smile that does not border on ostentatious. He can hear his professor’s words now: _A good business deal should always conclude with a smile, but that smile should be respectful. It is merely given to showcase a job well done, your pleasure with the proceedings – it should never be gaudy or overly animated_.

Preston and his other classmates spent most of the lecture practicing their smiles in front of a mirror. The smile Preston has on his face now is nothing like those smiles. It’s big and loopy and he feels out of breath as he tosses the ball about. Kids are laughing and grinning and he’s gotten a few pats on the back. The ones from Jordan and Tim mean the most and Preston loves this game, loves the feel of the ball beneath his hands, the sounds of shoes on the concrete, the swish the basket makes as the ball falls through it.

A sharp ringing sounds out and Preston skids to a halt on the court. His father stands on the sidewalk, shades over his eyes, bell up raised. Preston stops and catches his breath as Jordan and Tim come over, questioning looks on their face. Preston immediately goes to the grass and tugs the sneakers off, he hands them over to Jordan, looking guiltily away, “I…I have to go.”

Jordan takes the shoes back and Tim scratches at the back of his neck, looking totally bewildered. Preston tugs on his proper shoes and goes to his father. The family limo drives up and the chauffer holds open the door. Preston goes to get in but his father stops him with a sharp grip on his elbow. He squeezes it hard and Preston hisses but nods, understanding the silent command: _I go first._

Mr. Northwest gets into the car and Preston follows. The limo speeds off smoothly and Mr. Northwest carefully removes his shades. He puts them into his breast pocket as he crosses his arms and assess his son, “Just what did you think you were doing?”

Preston rubs at his sore elbow and looks down at the carpeted floor of the limo, “Um…playing?”

“Playing…?”

“Playing, sir.”

Mr. Northwest breathes in loudly and lounges back in the plush seats, “Preston, did you get a good look at those children?”

Preston shakes his head and Josiah sighs, “They were dirty, Preston. They were poor. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You understand, yet you were playing with them?”

Preston bites his lips and Mr. Northwest sits up, reaching out to tip Preston’s chin up, “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Preston meets his eyes and Mr. Northwest huffs, “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Look away.”

“But, sir-”

“Did I stutter, boy?” he asks and Preston immediately looks out one of the car windows as Josiah continues, “You have your mother’s eyes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It displeases me to look into them.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Preston apologies. He’s had to apologize for this before and he knows he’ll apologize for it again. He wonders whether or not his father will go further with the comment. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he expresses his displeasure at how Preston cost him his wife. How, perhaps if things had been different, his mother would still be alive today to take a handle of him. It’s not a role his father relishes. In fact, he tries to be as hands off with Preston as possible – probably because he can’t bear to look into his eyes.

Clearly this is the case, as he murmurs, “I should not be responsible for teaching you these things. This is what I pay my staff for,” he draws in a loud breath as if pained and rubs at his eyes, “But there is something to be said for the old adage; if you want something done right, you do it yourself. Is this what I must do, Preston? Must I constantly take you to task?”

Preston doesn’t look at him, but makes sure to adamantly shake his head. Josiah reaches into his briefcase and withdraws Preston’s bell. He sees it out of the corner of one eye and feels himself gripped tight with anxiety. Is he going to ring it? The bell is so innocuous, so small. It shouldn’t fill him with such dread. It has a polished wooden handle and the bowl is bright silver. He’s never seen beneath it, so he’s uncertain as to what the clacker looks like, but it certainly does an excellent job of drawing out a noise that, by all rights, should probably be viewed as cheerful.

But it doesn’t bring him cheer. It makes his blood run cold. He knows it could be worse though. During his much earlier adolescent years, when he’d been more willful – the rings had sometimes been met with slaps or strikes from a switch. These were not solely delivered by his father. Approved members of the staff were gifted their own bells and given permission to do what they must in order to keep Preston in line.

He learned not to cry, not to scream, not to be too loud. He’s allowed to laugh, to grin, to have fun, but these actions are weighted and measured. There’s an allotment for what he can express. And he’s done so well to fit within the confines of what he’s been trained to do since birth. To be the perfect son, the perfect Northwest; to be what his father wants.

After all, when he does as his father requests, he’s always rewarded. He’s given toys, pets, trinkets – if he toes the line, he can have whatever his heart desires, no matter how lavish. Preston always views these items as tokens of approval and he so craves his father’s approval. He longs for the day that his father is proud of him. The day where, perhaps, his father’s whole demeanor towards him will change – where it will _warm_.

However, it is not warm now as he continues to lecture, “I may not wish to meet your eyes but it is important that you always look directly into the eyes of others. It’s good for business.”

“I understand, sir.”

“But not the eyes of people beneath you,” Mr. Northwest stresses, “And those vagrants you were gallivanting about with just now are beneath you, Preston. You are a Northwest. Do you know what that means?”

Preston nods, “Yes, sir. You’ve told me. Many times.”

“Tell me.”

“A Northwest is proud. A Northwest is noble. A Northwest is a pinnacle,” Preston repeats the words he’s heard so many times without missing a beat. Mr. Northwest nods along to all of it, “And what, exactly, is a pinnacle?”

“It means a highpoint.”

“Correct, a highpoint. A beacon. We shine like a light down upon the rest of the world, blessing it with our presence. We are gods amongst men. And men? They are a low point; they are dirt – and that’s what you were associating yourself with just now, Preston. Dirt,” he eases forward and swiftly catches his son’s chin in on hand, fingertips digging into the tender flesh as he sharply directs his attention back to him, “Do not _ever_ let me catch you doing so again.”

He shakes Preston’s head for good measure, physically driving the point home. He releases him and Preston has to restraint himself from rubbing at the spots where his father’s grip was too tight. He looks out the car window again, blinking away tears.

 

+

 

As time passes, Preston begins to better fulfill his role.

He’s ten years old when he’s awarded his first servant. His name is McIntosh and it doesn’t take long for Preston to enjoy ordering him around. He has the man make his bed, do his laundry, prepare him snacks at any (and all) odd hours and drive him wherever he wishes to go. Not that he has too many places _to_ go. Having no real friends, Preston has no one to go see or visit, no one to spend time with.

Occasionally he goes shopping at high end retailers, as he has a budgeted allowance that he’s free to spend on whatever he wishes. He has the latest game consoles, the most fashionable clothing, and the best technological gadgets a child could ask for. He takes good care of his property and should something get ruined whether by mistake or his own petulance, he merely sends out McIntosh to purchase a replacement.

Nothing has any real value, but he likes knowing he has it. If there’s a new popular film or music album out, he has to have it first. And food – oh yes, he has to have the highest quality. It must be prepared fresh and with great skill. These facets shape his life, along with his schooling, and his father - generally satisfied with his son’s ‘improvement’ - decides to become further involved in his life.

Josiah directs him towards pursuing avenues of notable interest, impressing upon him how important they will be in the far flung future when he applies for colleges. And while Preston thinks fleetingly of basketball, he quickly dismisses it. It’s not gentlemanly. He endeavors to focus on the proper pursuits – things benefitting his station, things his father would be pleased to hear he’s doing.

He decides on classical instruments in the violin and the piano, arranging to have several practices a week with the best teachers money can buy. He becomes skilled in fencing, polo, horseback riding, archery, and sailing. He dedicates himself to becoming fluent in multiple languages and seeks knowledge wherever he can, eager to prove himself as a productive member of high society.

Intelligence is highly prized and he plans to learn as much as he can, stuff his head full to bursting with facts. However, he struggles with advanced sciences and he wishes he could find someone who could explain it to him. He’s fired tutor after tutor after tutor because none of them seem to be able to convey the information to him in a way where he’ll properly retain it.

As he grows into his early teens, his transformation is nearly complete. No longer is he the sullen, quiet child – no longer is he the one with the itch deep inside, the one with the craving for ‘more’, for ‘fun’. He’s exactly what he should be. Some label him selfish and unkind, but he knows they are merely narrow-minded and low born. He’s exactly how he should be, exactly how his father wishes him to be so surely, surely now his father will welcome him with open arms, draw him deeper into his confidence.

But he’s wrong.

It’s never enough. There’s always room for more. More improvement, more conditioning. His father starts remarking on his lack of a social life. He arranges for Preston to attend several social functions – debutante balls, cotillions, estate dinners. Preston does as he’s told. He does whatever it takes to please him.

He meets others his age and becomes chummy with them. They begin the tedious rigmarole of introductions and comparing of feats. Preston feels he has a great advantage over them, especially as his personal staff has grown – no longer does he depend solely on McIntosh. He oversees at least ten individuals now and almost everyone he meets is impressed.

Most particularly, Anita Vasquez, whose family, is deeply entrenched in the stock market. Preston is fourteen when she arrives at his house unexpectedly, flashing her overly long (most likely extended) eyelashes at him and announces, “I think you and I should date.”

Preston has never dated anyone. He looks at Anita and feels nothing, not even the slightest of sparks. But he knows the proper answer, so he supplies it, “Of course. I would be honored.”

He takes her hand and kisses it. She giggles and steps into his home. They watch a film together and make light chit chat about various political rumblings and gossip they’ve overheard from their parents and the news. When she leaves she kisses his cheek and Preston considers it a decent arrangement. Time drags on and he continues to ferry her around on his arm. She seems happy to be there and – at first – all is well.

Until they both turn sixteen and Preston’s world is completely flipped over.

 

+

 

It’s the summer of his sixteenth year and Preston is out of school. He’s bored, spoiled, overly moneyed and spends almost all of his time beside the Olympic sized swimming pool. When he’s not doing this, he’s harrying the servants for the fun of it. He likes watching them work and watching them work hard and this is when he first catches sight of Rafe Ramirez.

Rafe is clipping a wall of hedges and Preston notes that he’s young. This isn’t a shock – they have many young people in their employ but Rafe…he’s…different. His golden skin seems to glow and Preston can’t seem to take his eyes off of it. Rafe works with precision, the muscles in his arms bunching and Preston’s mouth is…dry. He has no idea why.

And not knowing why infuriates him. So much so that he charges over, hands in the pockets of his white shorts, his polo shirt unbuttoned as he remarks dryly, “You missed a spot.”

Rafe turns and Preston almost swallows his tongue when he sees his eyes. They’re so rich, so warm. Like melted caramel. Rafe scowls at him, “No.”

“Uh, yes,” Preston drawls in a condescending tone and he points to the upper edge of the hedge, “Right there.”

Rafe looks to where he’s pointing and snorts, “Oh, okay. I see. You know nothing of topiaries.”

“I beg your pardon?” Preston gasps, offended. No one questions him. No one but his father and he hasn’t been question by him for several years. Preston has been oh so good. He’s followed every rule, every edict. He’s toed the line and followed the letter to be the kind of son his father wants, the kind of Northwest he knows he should be. True, sometimes he lingers around his mother’s painting, looks up at it and remembers when Nanny Quinn first pointed it out to him, first made him realize that this stunning creature was his mother.

But he doesn’t dwell on it. It doesn’t do to dwell on such things.

He’s a Northwest through and through, just like he should be and he can’t believe this lowly gardener (no matter how, ah, compelling) would dare to question him. But then Rafe makes it worse. He smiles. He just smiles. All rows of perfect white teeth and Preston feels as if he’s been knocked off kilter again. It just makes him angrier as Rafe explains to him as if he’s a small child, “That was trimmed back recently. It’s no good to do so again. It might look slightly out of order right now but, I assure you, once it grows in more, it will match this quite nicely. It will be perfectly uniform.”

“But it’s not perfectly uniform _now_!”

“It’s called having patience, my prince.”

Preston stiffens at the title, “What did you just call me?”

“Would you prefer ‘sir’?” Rafe teases, “Seems kinda strange, you being younger and all, but if you wish…”

“I don’t care how much younger I am than you! I am your employer!”

“Actually Josiah Northwest is my employer. You’re merely his son,” Rafe chuckles and Preston is livid. No one talks back to him! No one! Especially not some lowly gardener! He’s about to really tear into this hooligan when he’s flashed that smile again. Preston stops, rage stifled by this expression and then, as if to add insult to injury, the man has the audacity to pat his arm. The touch is light and playful and Rafe shakes his head, “Listen, I have much work to do. But if you’d ever like to actually learn something of topiaries, you know where to find me.”

He throws his hedge clippers over one shoulder and whistles as he walks away. Preston stands there, all the blood in his body running wild throughout his system. He doesn’t understand what just happened. All he knows it that he doesn’t like it – not in the slightest.

 

+

 

Preston’s initial plan is to get the miscreant fired.

One of his greatest feats has been garnering his father’s trust in this regard. He’s been given permission to fire household staff before. In fact, he no longer needs to ask. So long as he can sufficiently explain at his weekly Friday progress report why he’s done something, his father will give a sage nod. Preston adores these nods – they’re as close to hugs as he gets. They’re a sign, a seal of endorsement from his elder.

Josiah Northwest is by no means a saint (albeit he’d think of himself as one) but he is Preston’s family. Family is an important tent pole in the Northwest way of life. You must always obey your family, love your family, love your name and Preston does. He does, because he knows he’s supposed to and it’s been drilled into him from the very beginning.

The Northwest family is greater than any other on the planet. Certainly greater than – than…

Preston realizes he doesn’t even _know_ the name of the upstart who dared to chastise him! But it matters little. He’ll fire him and that will be that. At least, this is his _initial_ plan. He goes to find the scoundrel only to see him in the greenhouse. He’s covered in soil and gently patting down a plant that Preston instantly recognizes.

It’s an orchid.

The memory is bittersweet, hazy. Quinn hugging him and kissing him, a book of flowers opened before him that was in alphabetical order. It had rested on ‘D’ when she left. He’d waited late into the night, until everything was dark and perfectly quiet before he’d continued to flip through it. She had told him of ‘Orchids’ and he’d wanted to see them. He’d found the picture and it’d been…beautiful. All the flowers he’d seen had been lovely but this one…

It was so open. Its petals almost flat, but gently curled outwards, welcoming. And there had been so many colors deep into its heart.  He’d been fascinated by it. Even as he’d grown, he’d kept that book. He’d tossed aside all his childish things but the book…

It’s tucked away, kept safe under lock and key in one of his many storage trunks. He never draws it out, never looks at it forlornly or any such silly nonsense, but it just feels good…knowing it’s there. Knowing it’s safe. And here’s this mouthy little reprobate touching the best flower in the book! Preston marches over, more than prepared to cut into this little nothing, to tell him to pack his things and leave when he has the impudence to turn and offer that damned _smile_ again.

Preston sort of chokes on open air as Rafe greets him, “Ah! My prince! I’m surprised to see you so soon! I naturally assumed you would stew or attempt to have me fired.”

He gets no response to this, Preston still struggling with it all, and his smile moves into a coyer grin, “Or perhaps you’ve come to slay me with your words? Insults? Gibes? Perhaps you have some menial task planned for me that you will think a fitting punishment?”

Noises leave Preston at each of these suggestions. They’re tight and injured, frustrated. All of those things sound excellent, but it’s clear this-this monster is prepared for them! Expecting them! As if Preston is oh so predictable! So…common! Preston is sure his face is high with color and this seems to merely amuse his tormentor, “Or perhaps you’re more cunning. Do you have some scheme planned? A way to pay me back? I must admit, I would find myself impressed if you have some nefarious plot in the works. Or a prank. I enjoy a good prank.”

“No!” Preston cuts in hotly and the word comes out much higher pitched than he would like, “I’ll have you know, Mister…um…uhhh…”

The corners near those damnably brown eyes crinkle, “Ramirez. Rafe Ramirez.”

“Yes! Mister Ramirez,” Preston says the name as if he’s his most loathsome enemy, “I’ll have you know that I would never deign myself to do any of those things!”

“Ah! I see,” Rafe laughs, “You are far too classy to debase yourself.”

“I am!” he argues back because he feels like –like he’s being…teased. He’s been teased before, by his other wealthy compatriots, but it’s always been so clear. It’s been jests about one’s car being better than another’s or a gloating of victory in a contest of sport. This is…different. And it makes him wildly uncomfortable, so he finds himself spouting off at the mouth, “I’ll have you know I’ve come here to-to learn about topiaries!”

This announcement seems to take both of them by surprise. But once out, Preston decides to blindly follow through with it. After all, he relishes seeing this…this mongrel finally tossed for a loop, “Yes! You offered to teach me, did you not?”

“Yes,” Rafe breathes, blinking and then that smile is back, “Yes, I guess I did. However, my work with that particular project has been finished. I am afraid I am regulated to the greenhouse today.”

“Oh,” Preston stumbles and he immediately squashes the spark of disappointment that takes him. He looks at the orchid and grows more determined, “Well, then teach me about what you’re doing right now!”

Rafe raises one eyebrow, “Really?”

Preston crosses his arms and nods, pleased to finally have the upper hand. Rafe’s lips move from side to side as he murmurs thoughtfully, “I don’t know. This doesn’t seem like the kind of work for such fine hands as your own. Hands that, I am sure, have not worked an honest day in their life.”

The words feel like a slap and Preston bristles, arms unfolding, “What!”

Rafe removes his gloves and, faster than Preston can comprehend, he reaches out and takes one of Preston’s hands in his. He runs his fingers over Preston’s open palm and fingers, clicking his tongue, “Hmm, just as I thought. Smooth as a baby’s cheek. You’ve never done a moment’s hard labor.”

Rafe’s fingers on him makes Preston’s heart vault into his throat. He draws back his hand as if a snake has bit him, “How dare you!”

“How dare I?” Rafe snorts, “You came down here with the intention of doing me some harm, of that I have no doubt. And now you claim you wish to learn my trade when it’s obvious you would have no idea where to start. You’re attempting to make a mockery of my profession and it will not stand.”

The words come out with sharp derision and they strike Preston to his very core. This man is standing here talking to him like he _knows_ him. Like he has him all figured out. This man had the nerve to touch him, to speak to him as if they’re equals and Preston…Preston finds himself feeling all manners of things he doesn’t want to feel.

But one thing stands out high above the others and he snaps, “Orchids!”

“What?”

Preston points to the flower, “Orchids. Or Orchidaceae! They can grow in a variety of colors and can be quite hearty but only in certain conditions. They need a lot of air to breathe, so they shouldn’t be potted in soil – which, I notice, you are covered with!”

Rafe looks down at his soil stained clothing and then up at Preston and his face is one of pure wonder than makes Preston feel like a king as he continues, “They do better in a potting mix, such as charcoal with fir bark or-or-”

His words are cut off as Rafe bursts into laughter. But this isn’t the kind of laughter Preston’s used to. Normally the laughing he hears is…snooty. Snooty and not truly heartfelt. Not filled with joy. Not like this. This laughter is bubbly and infectious and Preston finds himself…blushing. Smiling a truly genuine smile. One he quickly wipes away because he knows he’s not supposed to smile like that – not all broad and big. But it’s hard. Rafe is laughing and the sound is so…so happy.

Rafe breathes in, “You are quite educated, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Preston offers, but for once the words aren’t seated in superiority. They’re spoken with a sense of earnest and maybe this is what catches Rafe up short as he runs a hand through his thick collection of copper curls, “Well, I’ll have you know that the soil I am currently sporting is _not_ from the orchids. I am quite aware that soil can be their downfall. This fine mixture is from some of my earlier endeavors.”

Preston watches Rafe play with his hair and swallows thickly, heart beating hard, “I see.”

Rafe draws on his gloves once more then, smirking, he reaches beneath one of the nearby tables and finds another set of gloves. He tosses them to Preston, who catches them in one go. Rafe beams, “Alright, my prince. Let’s see what else I can teach you.”

 

+

 

Thus begins Preston’s true introduction to botany.

He’d always had a passing interest in it – Quinn’s words about his mother always an unvanquished note in the back of his mind – but he never put forth the effort he puts forth now. He orders several books on the subject, he watches educational films and he spends as much time with Rafe as possible. Well, as much time as is possible without arousing anyone’s suspicions.

The Northwest estate is full of eyes – some watchful, others not. Some who report directly to his father and Preston knows he has to play this right. When his father asks him about his sudden interest in the affairs of the gardening staff, Preston merely parlays it into a learning exercise. He tells his father in no uncertain terms that he merely wants to learn the running of the estate. How he wants the grounds to stay as neat and orderly as possible and that, once he’s done with these lessons, he’ll move on to supervising the kitchens.

The part about the kitchens is an outright lie, something he’s never done with his father before. Of course, Preston _knows_ how to lie. He is, in point of fact, excellent at it. But he’s never done so with his father. Josiah Northwest has always seemed too knowledgeable, neigh omniscient. Preston’s never practiced subterfuge with him for fear of being discovered, being smited.

But he risks it – his interest too strong to ignore. His father permits it and Preston feels like he’s on cloud nine. True, a lot of his initial curiosity had begun because of Rafe, but as time passes he finds it’s the flowers themselves that really speak to him. He even talks to other gardeners to learn more, to learn as much as he can and he finds he really enjoys the topic.

It’s so fascinating. There are so many different kinds of flowers – all with their own colors and scents, all with their own unique histories. They even have secret meanings, a language all their own. On the surface they appear so simple, but beneath the ground there’s so much more to them. There’s roots and mystery and Preston finds himself devouring all of it. It holds his attention far more than anything he’s ever been introduced to and he feels an overwhelming passion about all of it.

One he must keep tightly reared around his peers, around Anita. None of them care for flowers. None of them could even begin to understand it. Preston tries – with Anita. She’s been his girlfriend for two years and they’re approaching a milestone. She’s made subtle hints that they should take their involvement to the next level and while Preston knows about sex, he’s unsure if it’s truly a step he’s ready to take.

He knows others his age have already performed the action but he questions doing it so young, so soon. But Anita seems eager to explore what others have and Preston knows it’s his duty to please his lady. He arranges a gorgeous bouquet for her – a mix of wild flowers with many potent meanings, but when he gives it to her, she merely flashes him her gorgeous smile and puts them aside.

She puts the flowers aside.

She doesn’t look at them, doesn’t ask about them – she doesn’t even put them in water. She just puts them aside and starts kissing him hungrily and Preston…he draws away. He draws away from the kisses and feigns illness. He puts off his consummation with her, because she doesn’t understand – he’s given her flowers and she doesn’t understand.

But Rafe does.

Rafe’s grown in Preston’s eyes from a lowly employee to someone of true merit. Rafe’s helpful and educational. He’s also so…open. Easy. When Preston first balked at touching dirt, Rafe laughed at him – but playfully so. He shook his head and guided him, taught him that it’s okay to touch dirt, that it’s okay to have filthy hands – that it’s worth it, because the end results – the end results are so breathtaking.

And they are. Preston will never forget planting his first seeds, watching them grow. It was for daisies. Just simple daisies but they sprouted, little green furls breaking through the tightly packed brown soil to uncoil and move up and up under the sun’s rays. They became stronger and stronger as they blossomed, white and yellow and spectacular.

Preston also learns so much more about Rafe. He learns that he is only two years older than himself and that he has a huge family, all of them somehow residing under one roof. He learns that he has a dog named Annie and spends every Sunday faithfully going to Saint Jude’s Catholic Church. They sometimes converse only in Spanish, because Rafe is so delighted to discover that Preston can speak it and speak it very fluently.

They share lunches together and sometimes go on long walks and it’s about as close to heaven as Preston can imagine. For once, his life feels like it has a meaning. He knows at some point he’ll have to return his focus to its intended destiny – towards running the Northwest empire–but it currently feels so very far away. He assures himself that he can enjoy this, that he can have this. That it’s okay to have a hobby like botany so long as he recognizes that at the end of the day, his future is set on continuing the fine Northwest legacy.

Even though botany feels like much more than a hobby. Even though botany feels like his true life’s calling and he knows it can’t be that. He knows it, he knows it, _he knows it_. Still, everything seems to have reached a zenith of perfection and he doesn’t want it changed in the slightest! So, naturally, it does. It all falls apart.

 

+

 

It starts with Anita. She’s frustrated that they still haven’t made headway towards losing their virginity with one another and it comes to a boiling point at the yacht club’s annual commodore's ball. It starts off as a normal evening – fancy dress, cocktails, light dinner and dancing. They’re dancing with one another, bodies close when she whispers in his ear, “How about you and I slip away from the crowd?”

He draws back to look at her with some surprise, because this is unusual for her.  The dancing is normally Anita’s favorite part of the evening. But, never one to disappoint her, Preston nods and lets her led him away. They end up down in a private set of rooms and she licks her lips as she locks the door behind them. Immediately she’s on him, kissing and tugging at his clothing and Preston grunts, annoyed, “What’re you-?”

“Come on, Preston, darling. It’s time.”

“Time?” he blinks, lost.

Her eyes are predatory as she nods her head, “Mmm, time you saw what’s beneath this dress.”

“Anita!” he gasps, startled, even more so as she grabs his hands and forces them on to her breasts. He tries to draw them back but she’s in his arms again, fingers practically tearing his hair out as she kisses him. The kisses are forceful and not particularly pleasant. Preston tries to cool the breaks on all of this, tries to pull away from her but she’s forceful as she knocks him back on the nearby bed and clambers over top of him.

Her hips roll into his and he hisses but not in pleasure. The very opposite in fact and he’s struggling rather valiantly beneath her as she clutches at his wrists, his mouth breaking away from hers long enough for him to gasp, “Anita…stop…”

She lets out a furious growl and does as he asks, her voice a nasty hiss, “Preston, what is the matter with you?!”

He sits up, his hair tousled, clothing rumpled. She gets to her feet, her arms crossed, “Do you know how many guys would dream of doing this with me? Of having sex with me? Huh? Do you?”

He mutely shakes his head because he doesn’t. Sure, he’s seen his peers look at her with lust in their eyes but he’s only ever enjoyed that because it meant he was holding something over them. To him, it was merely the idea that she was his girlfriend, not theirs, but obviously there’s more to the equation than he imagines. She brings this into stark relief, “I can name them, Preston! Gregory Roberts, Erick Worthington, Jackson DeWitt! All of them have offered for me, all of them have vied for my attentions! But I brushed them off! All of them, for you!”

Preston shrinks in on himself. He was unaware she cared so deeply for him. He goes to apologize, but she continues, “And how do you repay me for my concessions, Preston? How? By growing flowers? By spending all your free time with your gardener?!”

Her words are full of mockery and this is when his spine snaps back into place, “Hey! I’ll have you know his name is Rafe! He’s taught me several things about our gardens! Ramirez is a good man!”

She lets out a huffy laugh, “Yeah, I’ll just bet he is.”

Preston’s eyebrows draw together, “What are you implying?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” she asks, eyebrows raised, face an ugly mask, “You’re one of _those_ abominations.”

“One of-?”

“A fudge packer, Preston,” she replies neatly, “A cocksucker.”

“A-a-a-?” He can’t even _repeat_ such language. He didn’t even know Anita knew them. Or that she would shoot them at him with such vitriol. She looks so smug now, her ‘blue’ eyes (obvious colored contacts) flashing, “You’re disgusting, Preston. A travesty of a man. I kept trying to tell myself it wasn’t true – that surely you couldn’t be gay, but that’s the _only_ explanation if you’re unwilling to do this with me!”

She unlocks the door, shaking her head, “I should have known. Honestly, the moment you first mentioned that little gopher you were spending so much time with – the moment you brought me that handful of weeds…I should have known. We’re through, Preston.”

She leaves him there, stunned and cold.

Gay?

He’s heard that word before and he knows what it means. But he’s not…he’s not…

_He’s not!_

Preston pushes it all aside. He concludes that Anita’s just crazy. It’s fine. He couldn’t date her forever. Nor would he want to date someone who would dare to call his flowers ‘weeds’. Who would dare to insult his friend and that’s when it dawns on him – Rafe is his _friend_.

While Preston has had friends before, he’s never really put weight behind the word. The people he refers to as ‘friends’ would be more aptly called peers or acquaintances.  They’re associates, links in the chain of the upper crust. They’re not people he can confide in, people he feels comfortable with.

But Rafe…Preston feels comfortable with him. Preston likes calling him his ‘friend’. It feels right and true. Far more true than any other time he’s used the term. Rafe is his friend. His friend and not his…lord, Preston’s not sure what he would call him were they romantically involved. Which they are not. Because Preston is not gay. He’s never had sexual thoughts about a man. He has about women…right?

The fact he’s unsure unnerves him. He starts to scour his mind for any previous sexual thoughts. He was never much one to experiment sexually. He goes home and ponders over Anita’s words, ponders over the idea of sex. He hadn’t wanted to have sex with Anita. At least not like that, he’s quite sure. He gets into his opulent shower and spends far more time under the rushing water than he would like.

He reaches down and gingerly touches himself, strokes himself. He’s not very hard, not at all excited, and he can think of nothing that would get him that way. He tries to picture what he knows he should. He thinks of women. Of long hair and lush breasts. He thinks of it and strokes but…nothing is happening. After repeatedly assuring himself mentally that he’s safe in his own mind, he carefully turns his thoughts to men. Strong arms, firm backsides and his…his cock stirs. If only slightly.

Then he thinks of Rafe.

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. But Anita had thrown him out there, had implicated that he and Preston were much more and Preston starts to picture it. He’s never credited himself with much of an imagination, but he brings a scenario to mind. Rafe just kissing him, those curved lips on his and Preston gasps because he’s… _ohhhhh_ , he’s…

His hand picks up pace, his length growing fuller, firmer, as he envision Rafe’s hands on him. He can just see the difference in their skin tones – light against dark and Rafe’s fingers are so nimble. They’d thumb at Preston’s hard nipples; just lightly striking the tips and his mouth…it would leave Preston’s. It would curve down his throat and then his fine, white teeth would bite lightly at the juncture where Preston’s neck meets his shoulder. Preston’s head falls back; hand working more quickly now, balls drawing up tight because it’s so easy to picture Rafe’s hand replacing his own.

Rafe’s hands, so rough and big – they’d feel delightful on his flesh and he would take good command of Preston. He’d stroke him so firmly, with such precision. Suddenly Anita’s cruel words circle in his head. What was it she’d said?  Something about him being a-a…

What if Rafe did that?

What if he got right down on his knees and sucked Preston’s cock deep into the hot cavern of his mouth and-and-!

The cry that tears out of Preston shocks him as his whole body lights up. He buries his mouth into his arm to stifle his cries as he cums. His orgasm rolls over him – hot and unexpected. His spunk dribbles over his fingers, paints the tiles in front of him and he shudders, falling back so as to be supported by the damp wall behind him.

_Shit, shit, shit…so good, so good…_

These are his thoughts, insidious and deadly. He slouches there, worn and confused. Eventually he rises. He rinses himself off. He wipes the evidence of his release away and closes his eyes. What the hell is he doing? Who the hell is he?

 

+

 

It ends with his father.

Preston has hardly seen hide nor hair of the man save his weekly Friday progress reports. Once those are completed, Preston is free to do as he pleases. And normally what pleases him is to work in the garden. He’s grown so much more than daisies now and his plant knowledge is quite extensive. He and Rafe joke about how he _finally_ knows something of topiaries and he truly does. He can appreciate the work that’s been done on the hedges now, can admire the quality put into their cutting.

And of course, when he works in the gardens he works with Rafe. They operate in unison – watering, clipping, and taking care of each of the flowers and plants respective needs. Preston’s never been as comfortable around someone as he is with Rafe. He feels safe telling him about things he likes, things he hates. They can tell each other jokes and talk about anything and it’s always without a stifled air. The air he’s used to from others, where everything is weighted in a sense of competition or discord.

It’s so…friendly. And also, perhaps, a little flirty. Preston never noticed it before. Not before what Anita said but sometimes…Rafe will be close and their arms will brush. It’s so simple but so…moving. And then there are more overt things – the way they tease one another or the way Rafe will push hair out of Preston’s face, point out that he has dirt on his cheek and wipe it away for him. 

In the past, these actions have always made Preston blush, but now he fully recognizes how suggestive they are. It makes his heart ache. And then Rafe invited him to church one Sunday.  The Northwests are not a very religious family – they worship no gods save themselves, but Preston finds it worth exploring. The sermons and prayers are not really something he understands but he makes sure to be on his best behavior. He stays quiet and respectful and it all goes swimmingly until a bell ring out.

He seizes up right in his seat and Rafe looks at him in worry, “Preston?”

Preston swallows and wildly looks around. But he sees no sign of Josiah Northwest and he realizes the sound of this bell is too heavy, too intoned. It’s the church bell.

“It’s the church bell,” he rasps under his breath and Rafe takes his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze, “Yes; the service is drawing to a close.”

Preston nods to himself and he must look quite a sight because Rafe eases closer, voice gentle, “Would you like to come to my house after this? My mama will prepare us an excellent meal.”

He gets a wobbly nod for his trouble. Preston is still on edge, even after he’s assured himself that his father is nowhere in the vicinity. The two of them leave the church and go to the Ramirez household where Preston is overwhelmed by a wild collection of people. There are kids of varying ages running everywhere and Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez are well ensconced in making the meal. They are helped by both sets of Rafe’s grandparents as well as some of his uncles and aunts.

Preston’s never been around such a large family. Past his father, he truly has no relations or, if he does, he’s never been introduced to them. As such, he’s a little lost when it comes to this occasion. He sticks with the attitude he adopted at the church – be quiet, be respectful.

It seems to be well received and he’s fed an amazing spread of food. It’s all colorful and delicious and afterwards the family plays basketball. He hasn’t thought of basketball in years and he wants to play, very much so, but he refrains. Instead he watches them all, content and…happy. It comes as something of a surprise to him and he knows it shouldn’t. But he’s happy. Truly happy and it makes it very hard for him not to smile the smile he’s been schooled not to give. The big, audacious smile of pure joy that Rafe almost always seems to wear.

The smile actually does take his face when one of Rafe’s aunts offers him the chance to hold her newborn son. The baby’s name is Jesus, but everyone just calls him Soos. He’s chubby and sweet, his tiny little hands reaching out to stroke at Preston’s face. Preston smiles the smile he’s been fighting for far too long. He looks up to see Rafe across the way, wearing the same smile and it’s a nice, shared moment that sticks with him long after he leaves.

Rafe takes him home and Preston feels like he’s floating on air, still buzzing from his great day. Rafe nudges him as they walk towards the greenhouse, “You are in a fine mood.”

Preston shrugs, “It was a good day. Thanks again.”

“You are quite welcome. I am glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“Well, I don’t know much about whether or not I enjoyed the church part…I couldn’t really follow along with all of that. But your family is very…enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic?” Rafe repeats with humor and Preston colors, “I…I don’t know how else to put it.”

“You can say ‘crazy’, Preston. I will not hold it against you.”

“They’re not crazy!” Preston gasps, as if stunned and at Rafe’s laugh he confesses a little bashfully, “Well, perhaps a little…”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Rafe chuckles and they enter the greenhouse. Preston goes straight for the batch of zinnias he’s been working over. Once satisfied that they’re coming along nicely he moves on to the daffodils, followed by the roses and then capped off with orchids. The orchids are by far his favorite and as he tenderly thumbs one of their petals Rafe comes up to him, clearing his throat, “You’ve done quite well.”

Preston turns to him with some surprise and for once it’s Rafe who looks sheepish, “When first we met, I didn’t expect much from you. In many ways, your reputation preceded you. But you’ve…surprised me. You really care for the flowers. It shows in how they’ve grown.”

Preston’s lips quirk, “Perhaps I’m the one who’s grown.”

“Perhaps.”

Preston returns his attention back to the flower. He looks at it, not Rafe, as he whispers, “My girlfriend broke up with me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

His shoulders lift and fall weakly and he keeps staring into the orchid’s center, eyes locked on its pollinium, “We were never very close. I don’t know. She had a good family name.”

“Is that all that matters to you?”

Preston doesn’t answer at first, his fingers tracing the feather soft petals, breathing in the floral scent before he sighs, “It matters to my father.”

“But not you?”

He shakes his head and his eyes skirt over to where he knows Rafe is standing, “I don’t know what matters to me. I don’t…I don’t know anything.”

“That’s not true.”

Preston draws away from the flower and turns to look at Rafe and suddenly he’s-he’s so angry. He doesn’t know why, but he’s furious. All the happiness from early flees as he snaps, “It _is_ true! I don’t know a goddamn thing, Rafe! I didn’t want Anita, but I dated her! I want to earn my father’s respect, but I can’t! It’s like – like I can’t get anything right! And what I want…”

He growls, cutting himself off. His hands become like claws as they tear through his thick hair, “What I want is _wrong_. It’s wrong and shameful and it will ruin everything!”

“What is it you want?” Rafe asks, as if the question is so easy, as if the answer is so simple. Preston takes Rafe’s arms in his hands and shakes him, “I want to grow flowers! I want to dig my hands in the dirt and feel the pulse of the very earth in my hands! I want to sweat and to play and to laugh! I want – I want to live! I want to _live_!”

Rafe searches his eyes, his voice a husky whisper, “And what’s stopping you?”

Preston is breathing heavily and he feels half out of his mind. Rafe reaches up and cups his face with one hand, “My prince…”

A deep groan erupts from the center of Preston’s chest as he lunges forward, as he captures Rafe’s mouth with his own. The kiss is hot and hungry. It’s wild with its intensity. Honestly, Preston has no idea if Rafe is even kissing him back. He’s not sure if he cares and he _knows_ he should. But he’s just-he’s so damn _needy_. He’s desperate and thirsty and he’s drinking in all this physical attention, taking it by force if necessary.

He doesn’t notice Rafe’s fingers in his hair; he doesn’t notice Rafe opening his mouth to allow him better access. All he knows is that he’s tasting him and he tastes unbelievable. Sweet and perfect, their bodies entangled together. Preston wants more. This isn’t enough – nowhere close to enough. He pulls back just enough to giggle – he _giggles_. It’s a drunk, intoxicated sound and then he’s kissing Rafe again.

He tugs at his clothes and he wants…well, he doesn’t know what he wants. But he wants that something with all his heart. Is it mere touch? Is it sex? Affection? He doesn’t know, he can’t put a label on it, but his whole body feels like it’s on fire. It’s as if there’s a beast inside of him and it’s awoken from a great slumber, roaring to life, insatiable. He’s kissing Rafe with passionate desperation when the bell rings out.

It’s sharper and more tightly rung than it’s ever been before. Preston draws away from Rafe, his face flushed; eyes unfocused. He’s panting, his lips wet and red, still tingling from the kisses as he looks up and sees his father standing there. Josiah’s eyes are as cold as an ice pool in the arctic. He smoothly puts the bell away and walks over, eerily calm.

“Mr. Ramirez,” Mr. Northwest intones, “If you be so kind to wait for me outside. I would like a moment alone with my son.”

Rafe looks torn, looks like he wants to protest, but Josiah shoots him such a look that he merely lowers his eyes and nods. He exits the greenhouse and Josiah breathes in loudly through his nose, his arms crossed as he looks his son up and down. Preston doesn’t look at him – he can’t. He stand there, frozen with fear, his skin still so hot from earlier, heart pounding hard even as it sinks down towards his toes.

“You know, Preston, you surprise me,” Josiah remarks quietly, “Every time I think you can’t possibly be more of a disappointment, you go out of your way to prove me wrong. It’s as if you relish bringing shame upon our family name.”

Preston doesn’t answer this, eyes still looking down, stinging with unshed tears as his father continues, “Perhaps you are wondering how I knew that boy’s name. I know it, because I know all of my servants’ names. I make it my business to know. Quite erroneously, I had come to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were capable of the same. I thought you might finally be growing into your role as my son, that you were _finally_ becoming someone of merit. A proper Northwest.”

He sighs and rubs at his eyes as if exhausted, “But then your former paramour came to see me. And she informed me of your failures. Dear, sweet Anita. She was quite upset.”

There’s a beat of silence and Preston doesn’t know what to say. How to respond. He just waits with bated breath for him to go on and, eventually, he does, “I did my best to…assuage her. To comfort her. I did what must be done to secure our legacy. She will tell no one of your shortcomings.”

This sounds ominous and Preston swallows, opens his mouth to speak but no words come. He still has had yet to look up. He’s…he’s too frightened to look up. To show his father the eyes he despises so much.

“I went to the kitchens and discovered you’d never been there. It didn’t take me long to discover that the vast majority of your reports were fabrications. That you were – and have been – lying to me. That you’ve been playing in the dirt like a child and now, here I come to find out you’re not just playing in it – you’re covering yourself with it. Succumbing to it.”

“Father, I-!”

“ _No_ ,” the word is not shouted, but it might as well have been. It’s said so coldly, so sharply, that Preston feels his whole body seize. Josiah’s voice is controlled but freezing, “Try again.”

Preston doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t. He draws in a shaky, audible breath. He hasn’t cried in years. Not since he was a very, very small child and he learned – quite quickly, never to do so. He can still remember the pain of the switch hitting him every time he wept. He doesn’t cry. A Northwest _never_ cries. He struggles to find the courage and answers, “Sir.”

He can’t see his father nod but he knows he does, “I’ve told you before not to associate with dirt, but you seem incapable of learning that lesson. Clearly I have not done my part in bringing you to heel, something I shall endeavor to do going forward. Something that I can start right now. So, let me ask you, Preston – what are you?”

The question brings him up short and he finally raises his head, finally looks at his father, “Wh-what?”

“What,” Josiah spaces each word out, “Are. You?”

The answer eludes Preston. He doesn’t know what the man wants. Does he want Preston to say that he’s his son? That he’s sorry? That he’s, he’s…gay? Preston doesn’t think any of those answers are correct and he feels himself tremble because he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. There’s a fire in his father’s eyes. A fire banked deep in the chilly center of them and it flickers as his right hand flies out and smacks Preston smartly across one cheek.

Preston doesn’t reel back, but his head does turn sharply. His father slaps him again. And then again. Loud, quick successions before he asks, “Are you a Northwest?”

Preston’s jaw works and Josiah hits him again, “Answer me.”

“Yes.”

Another slap.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” he hisses and is met right after with another sharp swipe.

 “What are you?”

“I’m a Nor-” Preston words are cut off, his father’s hand striking his right cheek again and it’s burning now, a glowing bright red. His father repeats the question again and again. Preston keeps trying to answer. But while he gets farther along each time, it’s quite a while before he manages to get out a full ‘I’m a Northwest’ without being struck.

When it’s done his face is throbbing and his father looks darkly satisfied. Save one thing. He looks at the orchid Preston was touching earlier and he touches it himself, hands oh so soft, as if they hadn’t just been delivering rows of slaps, “That’s right, Preston. You are a Northwest. And Northwests are _not_ gay. Do you understand?”

Preston licks his lips and rubs at his face, silently nodding.

“You are no longer permitted in this greenhouse or anywhere near the gardens,” Mr. Northwest murmurs, eyes on the orchid, “Your many texts on botany are to be removed from your possession and burned. Not donated, not sold – _burned_. The ashes are to be delivered to me on the morrow by your man McIntosh and then he will be dismissed, as will all servants under your employ. When and if, I feel you’ve earned it, I may reward you with a new set of servants, but it is highly unlikely such a time will come. It’s clear you can’t be trusted with the help.”

There are no words for this. Preston just feels…empty. Desolate. He stands there, face stinging, eyes wet, and he waits patiently as his father drones on, “You are my only son, Preston. A mistake which, evidently, I shall soon have to rectify. But even once that is done, you will _always_ be my eldest. My heir. That cannot be changed, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise. Your future rests in my hands.”

Josiah summarily, cleanly, plucks the orchid flower from its stem. He holds the delicate bud on one palm of his hand “But it can easily be crushed.”

To drive his point home, he curls his fingers tightly around the flower and squeezes. He squeezes hard, makes sure to dig his fingernails into the fragile petals, piercing it. He drops it to the ground and steps on it, grinds it beneath his foot in one effortless motion. He then takes Preston’s face in the same hand he destroyed the flower with. He locks their eyes, his grip punishing as he seethes, “Disappoint me again and I’ll annihilate you.”

He shoves Preston away with force and then walks out, his movements sure. Preston looks at the destroyed orchid and he draws in a ragged breath. He carefully goes down to his knees. He picks it up. It’s mutilated beyond repair, but its color is still vibrant. Preston holds it close to his heart and – for the first time in over a decade – he cries. He cries his very heart out.

 

+

 

Preston never sees Rafe again.

After the night in the greenhouse he just…vanishes. Preston doesn’t look for him, not right away. But after a set amount of time, when he feels like it might be safe – he looks. Rafe is gone. His family is tight lipped as to his whereabouts and Preston doesn’t blame him. They don’t know him well, why should they tell him anything?

Besides, his father becomes a near constant presence in his life. He hovers over Preston – a dark, authoritative cloud. He sticks with him from ages sixteen to eighteen. He dictates who Preston can spend time with, who he can date (and he arranges all of the dates - all fine girls from wealthy families), and what he may learn. Anything regarding botany is completely dropped. Preston is set to focus on business.

Josiah dictates that he’ll be placed within the automotive sector of Northwest enterprises. And, since he loves dirt so much, he’s regulated to the mud flaps department. It’s Josiah’s own private joke. It is, in point of fact, the closest Preston’s ever seen his father get to a smile, when he announced where Preston will be placed.

Preston follows along with it – why not? He has nothing else to do, nothing else to give himself over to. His only friend is gone, his interests taken from him. He just goes right back into fulfilling the function that’s been given to him. He plays the part of the perfect son, the perfect Northwest. He drills himself into it. He drains all the color, all the light out of himself and fills it with what’s expected. He puts on the mask of a pompous, egotistical jackass and he finds it fits well enough. It becomes less and less of a mask over time – it becomes who he is, because it’s who he’s supposed to be. Who his father wants him to be.

Although sometimes, sometimes - very, very, _very_ late at night he _feels_ it. The smallest, most delicate of seeds set deep within him, right in his very soul. This seed was planted innocuously one day as he descended the family staircase, his destination set on the dining room. He’s going down the steps, two at a time like always when he…pauses. And sees her.

The portrait of his mother. His eyes have lingered over it now and again, but now…now they rest there. He looks at her, looks into those eyes so like his own and he finds himself mindlessly drawing out his phone, taking a picture of it and saving it. He saves the picture and continues on his way. His father has arranged for him to go to the very best college in the state – West Coast Tech.

He’s not even that deep into his first semester, his major naturally set in business, when he and his father attend the Dean’s introductory mixer for highly accredited students. They arrive at the affair and it’s filled with the very best the school has to offer. It’s a glittering event and Preston is having a good time rubbing elbows with his fellow students when he first catches sight of him.

It’s a boy about his age and his height, with a slim but decent build. He’s wearing a dark blue beanie and big, thick glasses. His hair is dark brown and fluffy, sticking out at odd angles from beneath his hat. His face is broad, a tiny cleft in his chin and his clothes, while pedestrian, are neat. A sweater layered over a button up shirt, dark pants beneath. The first thought that comes to Preston’s mind is that he’s extremely handsome, but he instantly dismisses it.

That boy is not attractive. He’s just a boy. Just another student. Then Preston catches sight of him taking a cucumber sandwich and – as discreetly as possible – he tucks it into a napkin then into his messenger bag. He frowns at the action, wondering why on earth he would do such a thing when another boy approaches him. This one wears suspenders and bow tie and he has an outrageous beard. He too has glasses and brown hair but he also has this confidant air around him, as if he knows exactly who he is and has never once questioned it.

The boy with beanie is a little more anxious about his surroundings and then he turns and Preston can see his eyes.

His eyes!

Preston feels as if someone is throttling him. The boy’s eyes are the exact same shade as Rafe’s. Preston’s never forgotten that coffee caramel color. This boy’s eyes are the same and he – my god! He has _six_ fingers! Preston thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him at first but, no – the boy has six fingers on either hand.

Preston knows he’s openly staring, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Six fingers on each hand? How does that work? How does that _feel_? Suddenly an image of this boy touching his face rises to his mind’s eye and he colors. He looks away and sips his punch and tries to forget all about it when suddenly his father comes over and he’s being escorted around again.

And then eventually, much to his surprise, he finds himself opposite the boy in question. He’s in a ring with the Dean, his father, and this six fingered individual who’s apparently a brilliant genius beyond reproach. A genius who holds out his hand to him and offers a quirky grin, “Hi, Stanford Pines.”

“Pines,” Preston repeats and warily shakes his hand. It feels so…normal. But different. And those eyes…

“You can call me ‘Ford’,” he offers and Preston just offers dryly, “Preston Northwest.”

Then his father’s talking and then the Dean and then Ford again. Preston’s lost in all of it, still reeling from this introduction and when he floats away, father by his side, he’s a little stunned when he hears, “A fine young man.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“That Pines,” his father supplies, “Those fingers could use some help – uncertain as to why his parents didn’t get them removed at a young age, but otherwise, a good lad. He’ll certainly go places. Unlike some, he has a proper head on his shoulders – a clear cut and focused plan for his future. It’s very admirable.”

 _Admirable_? Preston hears the word and straightens, a sense of outrage shooting through him. _Admirable_? He turns and shoots daggers at Ford, who is back to laughing and talking with the bearded fellow again.

 _Admirable_.

Preston scowls and sets his mind to showing how very unadmirable this-this upstart is! He thinks this even as, deep inside his soul, he feels that small, delicate seed start to turn, start to sprout as if rising up towards the sun to bloom.

 


End file.
